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4 -- PORT PERRY STAR -- Tuesday, July 30, 1985 editorial comments TS Killing The Myth? It looks like nothing less than Divine intervention will keep the Major League baseball players from walking out on strike on August 6. That's the date the bats will fall silent unless there is some meaningful progress in the contract dispute bet- ween the Players Association and the owners of the ball clubs. There is not a lot of reason to be optimistic that a strike can be averted. It it happens on August 6, it will be the second time in five years that players have walked off the field. The last strike in 1980, split the season and went on for some 50 days. The fans did a lot of crying in their empty beer cups, but they came back, and support for the game in most major league cities has been stronger than ever. Like most complicated labour disputes, the loom- ing strike appears to be beyond comprehension for the outsider looking in. With the average salary in the $400,000 range and many players earning more than $1 million per season, money surely can't be the issue in this. But itis. The players want one-third of the long term TV rights placed in their pension fund. The owners say they can't afford it. The owners are talking of some kind of salary cap and they also want changes in the free agency rules and regulations. Mega-bucks are involved here, and for the average fan who dips into the grocery money to buy a couple of tickets once in a while, fights the traffic to get to the game, pays through the nose for a parking spot and then stands in line for a soggy hot- dog, the issues are light years away. The fans suspect that both the players and the owners are being greedy here, and it's hard not to blame them for their suspicions. And what will happen if there is a strike August 6? Will it be the ruin of baseball? Will the fans in turn boycott the games once the strike is over in retaliation? Will they tune in to Dynasty rather than the TV game of the week? Most unlikely. The game is too deeply etched in the character of our neighbours south of the border, and with the Blue Jays on fire now and the Expos more than respectable, the game is fast becoming a summer pas- sion for many people in this country. A strike this summer would likely kill the season, not to mention the Blue Jays chance at a World Series. But let's be honest, the fans would come back next year, or the year after. This is probably the reason there will be a strike. Neither side in this dispute seems willing to bend on the substantial issues. And both sides know that a strike is not going to kill the game. The fans are a hostage to the sport. The players and the owners know it. And while many fans may be spouting that if there is a strike, they will never set foot in a ball park again, they know deep down, it just isn't so. It will take more than a strike to kill the myths, the legends and the magic of the game, even though the players and the owners are doing their darndest to do just that. The Green In a letter to the editor published in this issue of the Port Perry Star, Georgia Brock outlines reasons why the Township council should retain the Old Queen Street bowling green in a natural setting, once the lawn bowlers move to their new green north of town Also in a letter to the editor this week, Vonne Haigh makes a similar plea to keep the green free from any kind of commercial development The points made by Ms. Brock are well reasoned, and in our opinion make very good sense The bowling green on the north side of Queen Street has been a Port Perry landmark for years. It 1s indeed a small 'oasis of green' on the main street of this com- munity, a main street, by the way, which in recent years has undergone a transition for the better, and 1s now a flounshing hub of commercial activity It 1s precisely for this reason that the bowling green should remain a 'passive park for the residents of the community, and visitors ahke To our knowledge. the Township council has had but one offer to purchase the bowlhng green. and the council declined to accept it We hope the council (and the new one that will take office after the November municipal elections) will not change its mind on this issue There is an inference in Ms Brock 's letter that if there 1s a change of mind on the part of this council or one in the future, many citizens of the community would be deeply upset, to the point of rallying to save the bowl- (Turn to page 6) ul 2 0 SSP © wl AMIR, wi A, hy 7 T™ CERTAINLY Tues, THiNGS YO o asouNO Po PERRY THIS SUMMED, $15! LT a en A Ae aft ata ofl ooo 7A bs IY A\ wal JI "casting SR) 2g 2 YL a (@ hi Xa Panter PORT PEREY Toga. 9570 J by Cathy Robb chatterbox A WHOPPER OF A TALE You're not going to believe this story. I can barely believe it myself. I was down in Oshawa last week with Liz the Whiz, my twerpey sister, picking up some proofs for one of the weddings I did. After I paid for the pix, I had five bucks in my pocket, so when Whiz suggested lunch, I suggested McDonald's. We were standing in one of the massive line-ups, yakking about who knows, and I was shifting from one foot to the other twiddling with my five dollar bill. It's just something I do. Twiddle, that is. I can't bear line-ups and when I catch myself stuck in one, I fidget. So there I am, playing with my five dollar bill, mak- ing paper airplanes, using it to clean out my ears, that sort of thing, when I accidently dropped it on the floor. Before I could even bend over to pick it up, this elfin, freckle-faced little brat appeared out of nowhere, scooped up the only money I had to my name, and disap- peared through the line-ups. "Hey'" I shrieked, and followed in hot pursuit, win- ding through disgruntled customers who assumed I was trying to butt in. I followed the tyke to the farthest line-up where | found him cowering behind the skirts of the hairiest, most muscular legs I have ever seen. The swollen, blue-veined feet were jammed into cheap plastic sandals, all ten toenails chipped and painted neon pink. The kid squatted behind those ankles, peering out at me between them, the five dollar bill stuffed in his shorts "Hey, kid," I began, but was interrupted by a voice that was half grizzly, half Popeye and all indignation. "That's my son you're talkin' to,"" the woman who was a mountain thundered. "You want to talk to him, you talk to me first Unwillingly. my eyes travelled from her ankles, up the rounded, prickly calves, around balloon hips. over distended belly wrapped tightly in a loud Hawaiin print dress. through about sixteen chins, and into the face of Raging Bull Her speckled grey hair was wrapped loosely in curlers, with one large pink one bobbing gently over her left eyebrow Her skin was pockmarked with century- old acne scars, her lips stained with nicotine, her eyelids lined with wrinkles, dark circles and hard black eyeliner Speaking of eyes. hers narrowed menacingly and locked on mine "Well." she bellowed My voice came out in a squeak, I'm sure "Excuse me ma'am," I said oh-so-politely 'I was standing over there in line and I dropped my money. a five dollar bill, and it was the only money | had =~ "*S0?" she interrupted. "Well, heh, heh, I think your son was doing me a, um, favour by picking it up, but, uh, I, uh, think he forgot to give it back to me," I stammered, and then gaining courage, added, "It's there, in his shorts. Could I have it back please?" She looked down at me, a good six inches taller. "Can you prove it's yours?" she asked slyly, the eyebrow with the curler on it raised slightly. I focused on the curler, bobbing obscenely, so | wouldn't have to meet her steady gaze. "FT uh, well, [ was just standing over there. And It's mine! It really is! Just ask my sister ...." "Does it have your name on it?' she countered, a triumphant grin spreading across her fat cheeks. My own fat cheeks quivered dangerously. Tears threatened to spill all over them. "Well no," I said wretchedly. "UH, HUH!" she shouted. "I thought not!" By this time everyone in the restaurant was star- ing at us. Whiz, embarrassed if anyone even looks at her the wrong way, was scarlet. She grabbed my arm and began towing me away. "Look, she growled between her teeth. 'Forget it 4 pay for your lunch. Just forget about the stupid witch." Numb with shock, I agreed, ordered a Big Mac and sat down at the nearest table. By this time I had lost my appetite completely. And then, unbelievably, the witch and her warlock son, parked themselves at the table right next to us, where they gobbled Chicken McNuggets and kept their eyes pealed on me the whole time. [ felt like I was going to barf. Finally the kid was bellyaching that he wanted to go to the bathroom, so the witch got up and lumbered him down to the ladies room, leaving her half-eaten sh and about a dozen assorted shopping bags on the table At that moment a light bulb went off in my head. Without thinking twice [ scooped the biggest parcel [ could find on the table, an Eaton's bag, and placed it right in front of me, a big soppy grin spread smugly across my face. When she came back to the table the first place she looked was at me, and at her bag stationed safely bet- ween my arms. She immediately rolled over to me and Whiz. "Gimme back my bag or I'll call the cops," she growled. curlers bopping all over the place (Turn to page 6) Gas dd a n ic ok ia id hic itt " dus hb Lf I aa ha 2. 2 a = Be Frm